Original Submissions by Delirium
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Grandfather Carru and Mock-the-Void
Added on Mar 23, 2007This larger-than-life tale appears to originate from the Sun Runner tribe, and was passed around in Luir's for a while after it was told during a tall-tale contest.
This is the story of Mock-the-Void and his battle with old Grandfather Carru, as it was passed down to me by my father and his mother's father's father's brother's uncle's father's father.
He was out hunting, young Mock-the-Void, with his bow of mekillot rib and a quiver of diamond-tipped arrows, trotting along the trail which would someday become the great North Road. He went past the bluffs; they were still growing, too, they were just a pack of rowdy boulders back then. Bow in hand, he stalked on, past the King of Plants, the Queen of Lizards, past them all, low as a shadow and just as silent, when he saw.. Him.
Big old Grandfather Carru, who he was hunting, for he was big enough to feed his entire tribe for years, and his hide was thick as a baobab tree, speckled with ages of weaponry from failed hunters before. Grandfather Carru's antlers were so big and sharp, they kept poking the northern sky and ripping little holes, some of which you can still see on clear nights.
So Mock-the-Void slunk up, watching in awe as old Grandfather Carru grazed on boulders with his mighty, sharp teeth, taking them up between his powerful jaws and - CRUNCH! He stood in shock as Grandfather Carru crunched the very rockblood from that boulder, and drank it with a brutal twist of his neck, swallowing the remains!
Now Mock-the-Void was brave but smart, so he waited for Grandfather Carru to sleep, watching nearby, watching and waiting. And he waited.. and waited.. and waited...
Until finally, four weeks later, old Grandfather Carru put his head down and stayed still. Thunder rose from that nose, which was big enough for an elf to run through, and Mock-the-Void knew he slept. Mock-the-Void crept up, with his finest diamond-tipped arrow nocked on his mighty mekillot-rib bow, and he aimed...and let fly...and struck true beneath the shoulder, where the heart would be.
There the arrow stuck, for Grandfather Carru's hide was too tough for even Mock-the-Void's arrows, which had killed mekillot at two hundred paces.
So Mock-the-Void crept away and found the King of Plants, who he'd passed on the way. The King owed him a favor, for a favor done in childhood, so now to the King he asked for a seed. The King of Plants had seeds so sharp, so vicious, that they could pierce old Grandfather Carru's hide, and he gave one of those seeds to Mock-the-Void. After a week's labor with the finest wood and the truest cut feathers - from the fiercest verrin ever to fly, of course - tipped with the King's seed, he had his arrow.
He went back to old Grandfather Carru, whose prints a man could stand in. Moving low as any quirri could be, he snuck around to the sleeping beast's face, for he wished to look in his eyes as he let the arrow fly.
There he was, Mock-the-Void, in Grandfather Carru's face - and the old beast woke.
Now my father's mother's father and my father's mother they come into disagreement on this bit... my father's mother says Grandfather Carru winked... and my father's mother's father, he says Grandfather Carru just lowered his head and charged. His foot plowed up the rocks and sent them rolling clear to the east, forming the cliffs that we now know.
Mock-the-Void was brave, if at this point a bit foolish, and let his arrow fly steady and true right into one of old Grandfather Carru's eyes. Now, when you shoot, your feet are still, and still means you don't run.
They say that Mock-the-Void was hit so hard he flew halfway across the known world before he went into the After, and they found his boots in the far valley of Xytrix Za - ten years later.
But!
That arrow was in Grandfather Carru's head. It took him two full weeks to realize he was dead, but all of a sudden he fell with a mighty crash among the scrub and rocks, right beside a vast deep chasm.
Mock-the-Void's cousins and brothers and sisters were watching, and they saw him fall. They crawled in through his nose to cut him apart from the inside, for his hide was still too thick to cut through. And there a vine sprouted, curling up from the arrow in Grandfather Carru's head, and grew, and the King of Plants led his people north and settled along that vast chasm and grew fat off Grandfather Carru's remains.
That is the story of Mock-The-Void and great Grandfather Carru. And it's why carru hate men and elf to this very day.This is the story of Mock-the-Void and his battle with old Grandfather Carru, as it was passed down to me by my father and his mother's father's father's brother's uncle's father's father.
He was out hunting, young Mock-the-Void, with his bow of mekillot rib and a quiver of diamond-tipped...
Continue Reading...Brawl at the Post
Added on Feb 6, 2007Tempers flare at the Storms End erupting into entertainment for all.
Note: This log shows the use of the 'brawl' code in a RP'd scene. Warning - violence and strong language may offend some people.
[From the viewpoint of the slight, desert-hued half-elf]
The Storm's End Tavern [NESWU]
This building evidences the same architectural principles as the inner
wall and gate towers, but to a much lesser degree. Its horns and spiked
flanges have either been worn with time or were designed to a more subtle
appearance. Inside, veins of obsidian run along the ceiling and walls,
generating the impression of a cold, stony skin, black-blooded and evil.
A massive wooden bar, stained to a deep grey and lacquered to a mirror
shine, dominates the eastern half of the room. An image of an eclipsed
sun, the paint vivid and fresh, blazes along the front of the bar, the rays
reaching the full length of it. The walls appear to have been scrubbed
till they shine with the deep malevolence only limitless black can hold.
A stone stairway curls around itself, spiraling up through the veined
ceiling. To the north, an impressive archway leads the way to a
laughter-filled spice den.The stout, one-eyed man is sitting at a long, carved wooden bar.
The inked, scar-skinned half-elf is standing here.
The sanguine-mohawked half-elf is sitting at a rounded agafari table.
The tiny, brown-skinned dwarf is sitting at a long, carved wooden bar.
The tall, pierced woman is sitting at a long, carved wooden bar.
The ivory-maned, pallid-toned woman leans against the bar, surveying the
room.
The stocky, clean-shaven man is sitting at a long, carved wooden bar.
The darkly tanned innkeeper stands here, wiping his hands on his apron.
The muscular, blue-eyed man stands quietly beside the bar here.
A burly half-giant soldier with a flat nose stands hunched here.
Pushing against the bar with her sueded palm, the slight, desert-hued
half-elf studies the tavern.
The inked, scar-skinned half-elf makes his way over to the darkly
tanned innkeeper, with a deep nod to the stocky, clean-shaven man as
he approaches a long, carved wooden bar.
The tall, pierced woman asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"What do ya think halfie? Ya like 'em young and clumsy, or old
and experienced?"
The inked, scar-skinned half-elf gets a pile of allanaki coins from a
thin pouched belt.
A thin trail of odorless smoke trickles from the stocky, clean-shaven
man's mouth as he smokes a naked harlot spice pipe.
The stocky, clean-shaven man's expression becomes lighter.
The stout, one-eyed man snickers, shaking his head.
Very, very softly, curling a spiked hand firmly to her shoulder, you
say to the tall, pierced woman, in sirihish:
"I think I told you not to call me halfie."
You say to the tall, pierced woman, in sirihish:
"An' if you bring up that topic to me again.."
The inked, scar-skinned half-elf speaks to the darkly tanned innkeeper
for a moment, with a glance to you and a firm grip on his serrated
spike-hilted longknife.
The tiny, brown-skinned dwarf's tongue flicks across his lips as he
straightens slightly in his seat.
The tall, pierced woman looks up at you.
You feel barely restrained, sparked-off rage.
The darkly tanned innkeeper trades a glass flagon to the inked,
scar-skinned half-elf.
The darkly tanned innkeeper trades a glass flagon to the inked,
scar-skinned half-elf.
Her dark face tight with rage, the slight, desert-hued half-elf
appears to stop herself, words bitten back.
Putting her hand on your hand, the tall, pierced woman says to you, in
southern-accented sirihish:
"I think you're a little confused."
The sanguine-mohawked half-elf rests her dull gaze briefly on a long,
carved wooden bar.
Snarling briefly, the slight, desert-hued half-elf snatches her hand
from the tall, pierced woman's touch.
You stalk up to the tall, pierced woman and reach down, grabbing for
her.
You grab the tall, pierced woman's shoulder roughly.
Through her teeth, you say to the tall, pierced woman, in sirihish:
"I don't LIKE you."
Making his way back to a rounded agafari table, the inked,
scar-skinned half-elf keeps an eye on a long, carved wooden bar.
The tall, pierced woman says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Well I -love- you."
The stout, one-eyed man peers over at the commotion.
Sitting on a seat, the inked, scar-skinned half-elf sits at a rounded
agafari table.
The sanguine-mohawked half-elf plants her hand on a rounded agafari
table, barely shifting her weight to her feet.
The stout, one-eyed man chuckles roughly.
With a firm nod, the inked, scar-skinned half-elf gives his glass
flagon to the sanguine-mohawked half-elf.
Her jaw muscles tense and voice even, shaking with restrained rage,
you say to the tall, pierced woman, in sirihish:
"You have no idea how stupid that was of you."
At a long, carved wooden bar, you overhear the tiny, brown-skinned
dwarf say in mirukkim, to himself:
"Not goilg to ninm rdih I'm ajjir hime."
You say, in sirihish:
"I'm going to pretend you never said it."
At a rounded agafari table, you overhear the inked, scar-skinned
half-elf say in sirihish:
"Weakes' stuff we go here."
The sanguine-mohawked half-elf tears her gaze from a long, carved
wooden bar, tentatively reaching for her glass flagon with her bony
fingers.
The stocky, clean-shaven man looks between the tall, pierced woman and
you, letting his naked harlot spice pipe hang out the corner of his
mouth.
Pushing your hand off her shoulder again, the tall, pierced woman says
to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Ya see, what ya told me is that ya weren't gonna help save me
from some assrape if I called ya halfie again."
Releasing her grip on the tall, pierced woman's shoulder, slowly, the
slight, desert-hued half-elf slides a step back.
The tall, pierced woman says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I appreciate the thought, but I'm perfectly capable of savin'
myself."
The stout, one-eyed man arches a high brow.
You feel difficulty restraining her set-off emotions, memories of
Pendeh and intense emotional pain roaring through her.
The sanguine-mohawked half-elf turns her eyes helplessly back to a
long, carved wooden bar, her expression held close and tight.
With a broad smile, the tall, pierced woman asks you, in
southern-accented sirihish:
"So why don't ya just keep on not savin' me from the molesters,
and I'll keep on sayin' whatever I damn please, alright?"
The darkly tanned innkeeper scratches his jaw, leaning one elbow down
on the bar as he watches you and the tall, pierced woman.
The slight, desert-hued half-elf closes one hand into a spiky fist
and lifts it to her forehead, taking a long, deep breath.
At a rounded agafari table, you overhear the sanguine-mohawked
half-elf say in sirihish, murmuring scratchily aside to the inked,
scar-skinned half-elf:
"This happen a lot?"
Her voice tremoring with held-back rage, you say to the tall, pierced
woman, in sirihish:
"You keep runnin' that mouth, sugar."
The inked, scar-skinned half-elf shakes his head, then takes a sip
from his glass flagon.
The inked, scar-skinned half-elf sips from his glass flagon.
Under his breath, the darkly tanned innkeeper says, in sirihish:
"Wouldn't risk it meself."
You think:
"Swear t'fuck.. I -try- to behave.."
The tall, pierced woman asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"And ya keep strokin' that chip on your shoulder.Ya might want
ta just ease it off, eh?Eh?"
At a long, carved wooden bar, you overhear the stout, one-eyed man say
in sirihish:
"That's some shit if I've ever seen it."
At a long, carved wooden bar, you overhear the stocky, clean-shaven
man say in northern-accented sirihish, looking down at his naked
harlot spice pipe:
"I got one puff of this left. One of you needs it."
You think:
"Some fucking cunt comes along.."
The sanguine-mohawked half-elf lifts her glass flagon cautiously to
her parched lips.
The sanguine-mohawked half-elf sips from her glass flagon.
The darkly tanned innkeeper whistles, shaking his head slightly.
Muffling a scream of rage in the back of her throat, the slight,
desert-hued half-elf jerks her fist back as if to strike, nostrils
flaring as she hangs it there.
At a long, carved wooden bar, you overhear the stout, one-eyed man say
in sirihish:
"Hey Sid... know when you've gone too far."
The ivory-maned, pallid-toned woman walks north.
The tall, pierced woman inclines her head, her smile vanishing.
The tall, pierced woman stands up from a long, carved wooden bar.
Unflexing her hand and pointing at the tall, pierced woman, you say
to the stocky, clean-shaven man, in sirihish:
"That... CUNT.. better not say another.. word to me."
Staring at you, the tall, pierced woman says to you, in
southern-accented sirihish:
"Look here, look here."
The tall, pierced woman takes a step closer to you.
The stout, one-eyed man shakes his head.
The sanguine-mohawked half-elf merely watches the tall, pierced woman
from beneath the shadowy brim of her dusty wide-rimmed leather hat.
The tall, pierced woman says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I'm sorry."
At a long, carved wooden bar, you overhear the stout, one-eyed man say
in sirihish:
"She's done."
You grab a rough clay mug of ale and hurl it at the tall, pierced
woman's
head.
Clay shatters as the mug breaks into pieces on impact. Nice shot!
Roaring as she pounces for the tall, pierced woman, you shout in
sirihish:
"SORRY!"
The inked, scar-skinned half-elf looks up at the tall, pierced woman
from his seat at a rounded agafari table.
Swiping for her, you exclaim to the tall, pierced woman, in sirihish:
"I'll show you fucking sorry, you 'tok faced bitch!"
You grab her by the shoulders and bring a knee up sharply into her
abdomen.
The tall, pierced woman groans loudly and doubles over.
The stocky, clean-shaven man grits his teeth.
The tall, pierced woman blinks in confusion, slowly putting a hand to
her bleeding brow.
At a long, carved wooden bar, you overhear the stout, one-eyed man say
in sirihish, jerking his thumb over his shoulder:
"She got that tok faced bitch from me."
The tiny, brown-skinned dwarf knocks aside a bit of clay that settles
beside his spot at a long, carved wooden bar.
You exclaim to the tall, pierced woman, in sirihish:
"You have no idea!None!No FUCKING idea what you're saying!"
The inked, scar-skinned half-elf sheathes a serrated spike-hilted
longknife.
The tall, pierced woman looks around in a daze, gaze slowly focusing on
you.
Advancing in a sparked-off, wild rage, you exclaim to the tall,
pierced woman, in sirihish:
"You ever had a mate, woman?!"
At a rounded agafari table, you overhear the sanguine-mohawked
half-elf say in sirihish, nearly whispering to the inked, scar-skinned
half-elf:
"Who that woman Sha is mauling?"
Grasping for the tall, pierced woman's collar, you shout in sirihish:
"Someone you loved more than life itself?!"
You step in close and drive an elbow into her ribs.
The tall, pierced woman grunts softly, swaying on her feet as she
struggles to breathe.
At a long, carved wooden bar, you overhear the stout, one-eyed man say
in sirihish:
"Oh great she's got her started on all the kanks on her back."
Her voice slurred, the tall, pierced woman says to you, in
southern-accented sirihish:
"Ya... ya hit me."
Pushing up, the stocky, clean-shaven man says to you, in
northern-accented sirihish:
"Sergeant. You knocked 'er senseless. She probably can't even hear
you."
Jerking her face close to hers with her fist, you say to the tall,
pierced woman, in sirihish:
"I--"
Leaning over, the inked, scar-skinned half-elf whispers something to
the sanguine-mohawked half-elf.
You feel her blind rage abruptly snap out.
The tall, pierced woman wheezes, her face turning blue as she
struggles to breathe.
Abruptly calming, cool and distant as she jerks her collar again,
then shoves her away, you say to the tall, pierced woman, in sirihish:
"I warned you, bitch."
At a long, carved wooden bar, the stout, one-eyed man speaks, shrugging.
The stocky, clean-shaven man stands up from a long, carved wooden bar.
You think:
"Fuck.."
Leaning over herself, the sanguine-mohawked half-elf whispers
something to the inked, scar-skinned half-elf.
Spluttering blood, the tall, pierced woman suddenly lurches over and
seizes you.
Whirling, the slight, desert-hued half-elf faces the tall, pierced
woman.
Her eyes wild, the tall, pierced woman says to you, in
southern-accented sirihish:
"No.Never.No one that would ever love me."
Nostrils flaring, you say to the tall, pierced woman, in sirihish:
"Get away from me."
You feel intense pain.
A bit of drool coming from her lips, the tall, pierced woman says to
you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I didn't need that, I just wanted a baby."
The stout, one-eyed man watches from over his shoulder.
You feel another edgy burst of anger at the mention of children.
A mul, clad in the garb of the desert traveller and bearing a huge
hammer on his back, moves through the crowd.
Still holding onto you, the tall, pierced woman says to you, in
southern-accented sirihish:
"But I can't have that, cause they beat me so I could never have
that, just like you."
At a long, carved wooden bar, the stout, one-eyed man speaks, shaking his
head.
The tall, pierced woman collapses at your feet.
The tall, pierced woman sits down to rest.
Wordlessly, the slight, desert-hued half-elf stares down at the tall,
pierced woman.
You think:
"You expect me to feel pity for you, woman?"
You feel intense hatred.
Mumbling imperceptably, the tall, pierced woman says, in
southern-accented sirihish:
"Just like ya did now."
Unconsciously, the inked, scar-skinned half-elf's lips pull back in a
slight snarl as he watches you and the tall, pierced woman.
The stout, one-eyed man says to you, in bendune:
"Knocked the cunt right out of her, looks like."
Kicking her away from her and stalking off, you say to the tall,
pierced woman, in sirihish:
"Maybe you should work on keeping your fucking mouth shut."
The tiny, brown-skinned dwarf sucks air through his teeth, back
against the lip of a long, carved wooden bar.
The tall, pierced woman curls up into a fetal position as she is kicked.
Shoulders taut with anger as she heads for the door, you say, in
sirihish:
"I have no pity for you."
s (to the dark street)Note: This log shows the use of the 'brawl' code in a RP'd scene. Warning - violence and strong language may offend some people.
[From the viewpoint of the slight, desert-hued half-elf]
The Storm's End Tavern [NESWU]
This building evidences the same architectural principles as the inner
wall and...
Continue Reading...Choice, The
Added on Feb 2, 2005A hermit ponders his choice of lifestyle.
When you live like I do, you get used to many things. The intense heat, the burning sun, the stinging sand that manages to get everywhere, no matter how well you cover yourself. The lonely hiss of the wind, never ceasing in its patient efforts to reshape the dunes, to scour the bones of those that have already lost their battle with this unforgiving world.
I am an outcast, even among mutants and freaks. Mages like me have few choices, and none of them are easy.
One is to hide your true nature, to suppress the urges that are a part of your very being. To feel your powers gnawing away at you like rats devouring your body from the inside out, and to know that to release it and ease your pain would be to set foot down a path from which there is no turning back. To know that if you don't, one day you will end up losing control. That day will likely be the one you die. Whether to a frightened mob or to the ever vigilant justice of the templarate, it matters little, for those that wield the awesome and unpredictable forces of nature are never permitted to remain free once they're discovered.
You could choose instead to submit yourself to a lifetime of humiliation, to be collared with the infamous black gem. To be set apart from society, sequestered within the walls of the Magicker's Quarter, at once identified and loathed for the tainted being that you are, no matter where you go. To know that despite the things you have in common with other mages, each one of you is to be trusted less than the common people outside the Quarter's walls - commoners who are afraid to tread the ground you walk on, and would destroy you if they only thought they could.
Nonetheless, considering the alternatives, it's little surprise that many choose the life of being gemmed.
The alternatives? Death, or the desert.
When you live like I do, your day to day existence takes on a certain rhythm; it takes on the motion of the dunes and the shifting sands. You learn to move with the wind, with the sun, with the cooler blessings of dawn and dusk. Water is the ever-present desire in the back of your mind and on the tip of your tongue, more precious than the finest silks. Mortal danger hunts you at every step; whether presented by a ravenous beast, a band of raiders as desperate as you for water and survival, or within the very land itself, it is there. Storms can happen without warning, the mildest of them kicking up a blinding fury of whipping sand and wind that tears at your clothing, rubs your skin raw, and fills your nose and mouth with the gritty taste of desert life.
It's the life I've chosen. Better this, I say, than to be subject to the filth, decay, and corrupt whims of the Black City, or die to the fanatical judgment of the Ivory. Better this than to be used like a toy by a southern noble, to be broken and then discarded. Better this than to be a slave, utterly lacking freedom of choice and will. Better this than to be caged, collared and held back, to live in constant humiliation and fear.
There is a certain fierce pride I take in surviving until the sky takes on its evening purple hue, and living to see the red glory of Suk-Krath blaze above the horizon each morning. There is no better place than the desert to find that place within yourself that shows you just how strong you can be; and also how worthless and small you are compared to its stark, indifferent beauty. It moves my feet forward step by step, and it keeps me struggling to conquer this land that always wins in the end, to control these powers of mine that cannot ever be completely tamed.
Yet when the storms rage for days outside my crude shelter, the supply of precious water in my skin dwindles to a last tiny sip, and my belly grumbles in weak protest at its meager rations of food, I often begin to wonder at the choice I made.
When you live like I do, you get used to many things. The intense heat, the burning sun, the stinging sand that manages to get everywhere, no matter how well you cover yourself. The lonely hiss of the wind, never ceasing in its patient efforts to reshape the dunes, to scour the bones of those...
Continue Reading...
